A Journey to the West
by cellokisses
Summary: Ma said I should keep a journal, to keep the memories from going, she said. Well, I suppose she's right, like she always is. My name is Fern Joad, and this is my story.  -The Grapes of Wrath-


**Entry I - Chapter 13**

California sure is a long ways away from home. After driving for so long under the full sun, the roof of the car was hot enough to burn your hand if you touched it for too long, but there was nowhere else for us to sit. We tried to make it better by laying out some quilts on the car and putting wet cloths over our heads, but those had long dried up. I think Winfield was sucking on mine while I was sleeping, because it got dry hours before everybody else's. Granma whimpered from the heat as she slept besides me even though we all gave her as much of the covering as we could. Ma sat at the head of the car, silent. Although she was close enough for me to touch the top of her head, it seemed like she wasn't really there, but that her mind was wandering in some lonely place too far for me to go. I wonder if we'll really get to California. What if we're just driving around in circles, mile after mile, farm after farm? I don't think Ma would let something like that happen, but I don't know. Al does things like that every once in a while.

When I looked over the edge of the roof, I saw the strangest thing. The road underneath us was a grey-white color, sort of powdery and very dry. Casy called it 'concrete'. He said that it would be the building block for the unification of the entire country. I'm not too sure what that means, but that it's important, and probably expensive. I tried to pull off a piece to keep when we took a stop to let Granma go in the bushes, but it wouldn't budge.

"I ain't a-goin', I tell you. I just ain't," Grampa kept crying from the top of the truck. Ma and Pa didn't tell me or Ruthie or Winfield about it, but we know that he sure didn't come on this trip willingly.

I was the first to finish eating, and I tossed my clean pork bones into the grass before climbing back onto the truck to claim a spot with some quilt between me and the roof.

Ma, shading her eyes against the sun, called up to me, "Next stop we make is Paden, Fern. That'll be a while, so make sure you finish up any business you got 'fore we start drivin'."

Winfield clambered back over the edge of the car, as grubby as ever, and smiled toothily at me. I could see that his lips were cracked and starting to bleed, but he didn't seem to notice too much. We're all thirsty all the time now.

"Want some chocolate?"

"What's chocolate?" I eyed the brown lump he held in his outstretched hand suspiciously. It looked all too much like a clump of dirt off the side of the road.

"Just the most deeelicioused-est thing on this here planet," Winfield drawled.

"And if it's the most delicioused-est thing ever than why don't you eat it?" I asked.

"I always knew you was chicken," Winfield said scornfully.

I thought to myself, Lord Almighty and beautiful Jesus, forgive me, but the day Winfield calls me chicken to my face is the day I teach him a lesson. Glaring at him, I grabbed the brown bit from his hand. Ruthie warned me not to do it, but I ate it anyways. Their laughter echoed through the silent fields all the way to Paden because it really had been a clump of dirt.

**xxxzzzaaazzzxxx**

There was a mean-looking man waiting for us when we pulled up to the little run-down shack beside the road. His face was all red and pinched, and he had a funny hat on that shone in the sun. Ruthie giggled when I told her that I knew tomatoes that had seen better days.

Winfield, Ruthie, and I watched as he came over to talk to Al, who was fixing the truck. We couldn't right hear what they were saying but Al seemed to get angrier and angrier until Tom cut in and said something fierce. The man deflated a little, and Tom told us to climb down and get ourselves a drink of water.

We scrambled down the sides of the truck and surrounded the water hose, taking turns to drink from its end. Winfield ducked his head under the stream and shook his sopping wet hair around like our dog did sometimes after he got wet, and Ruthie and I screamed with delight as the water sprayed onto our clothes and faces.

"It's not cool," Winfield said with a frown.

I filled my cupped hands and let the water run through my fingers. It felt like such a long time since I'd touched water.

Ruthie pulled on my sleeve and said, "Come on, let's go to the corn field."

We slipped away from the rest of the family and into the rows of swaying leaves. We stopped running after a distance, panting slightly but happy from stretching our legs after such a long ride. I reached out and fingered a leaf that fell near my face. It was curled and yellowed, giving up its long battle with the sun.

"It's dead," Ruthie whispered, wide-eyed. "Just like the ones on our land."

I drew back my hand quickly and wiped it on my dress, but the wetness on them had already gone. My mouth felt parched again, and the air, somehow heavier. This man was as poor as we were.

"Let's get back," I said, turning towards the shack.

There was a rustle of leaves and a blur of brown hit me, pushing me backwards onto the dusty ground.

Winfield's familiar grin filled my vision. "Look, Fern. I found eggs." He opened his clenched fist to show us a few gray eggs in his hand.

"Wonderful," I muttered. "Get offa me," I scowled, shoving him off and standing up.

Then we heard Pa whistle shrilly from afar.

"Time to go," Winfield said cheerfully.

Sometimes I just plain don't get how he can be related to me.

As we made our way back to the truck, I found a smooth pebble shaped sort of like a heart. Turning it over and over in my palm, I didn't notice when Ruthie stopped suddenly in front of me, so I walked headfirst into her back.

"Jesus, Ruthie," I said, rubbing my sore nose. "Why'd you stop?" When she didn't respond, I craned my head to look over her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

That's when I saw our dog, laying there all cut up next to the road.

Winfield, who had been hastily trying to catch up with us, slowed to a halt when he saw too. "What happened?" he asked.

We circled warily around the dead dog and stared at it in silence.

Pa called to us, "Come on, then, 'less you want to get left."

Ruthie was first to climb up the truck, then Winfield. I turned to go with them, but I looked back for a moment longer. Its empty eyes, once shining with life, gave me the chills.

There was a hushed quiet as we sat together on the roof.

"His eyes was still open," Ruthie said softly.

Winfield boasted, "His guts was just strewed all over." He repeated, "All over" – he hesitated – "strewed all over," he trailed off. Then he vomited over the side of the truck.

I hugged my knees and closed my eyes and prayed. I prayed for God to love that dead dog, and I prayed for God to let all of us reach California.

**xxxzzzaaazzzxxx**

"Fern." Somebody shook me. "Fern."

I opened my eyes slowly to see Casy sitting next to me.

"Look," he pointed, "that's Oklahoma City. Just as I promised."

We passed streets and stores that ran in endlessly straight lines up and down like soldiers parading around the city. There were houses easily three times the size of ours and hot-dog stands, lots and lots of hot-dog stands. I've never seen anything so big, or so crammed with people, or so cold – full of metal and concrete and no green things to greet the eyes. Then the city's smell of oil and gasoline faded into a memory, and we drove down the 66, the motor droning steadily as the road took us a little further from our home with every mile.

**xxxzzzaaazzzxxx**

"Why's there smoke coming from that trash heap?" asked Winfield, squinting his eyes to see better. "Is it a fire?"

As we drew closer, a man in dirty blue clothes came out of what I realized was his tent. He also wore a strange hat, but his was made of straw, and his face was pale and drawn. His name was Ivy Wilson, and his wife, Sairy, was sick. Ma sent Ruthie and Winfield to the service station up ahead to fill our bucket with water, and she told me to find wood for the fire.

I walked the length of the ditch picking up sticks and branches from the ground before heading back to the truck with my arms full. When I placed my load down next to the couple's tent, I heard a thump behind me. Grampa leaned limply against the truck as the rest of the family moved busily around him, unloading things from the truck and setting up camp.

I sat down next to him and asked, "You sick, Grampa?"

His glassy eyes stared right through me.

"Miss Sairy," I said as I approached the frail woman. She turned to look at me. "I think my Grampa is real sick."

As Ma and Casy helped Grampa into the tent that Miss Sairy offered, I saw Grampa cry for the first time. The tears that ran down his face filled my mouth with a bitter taste. They closed the flap of the tent behind them, but I could still hear him sobbing even as Tom chopped wood and Ma unloaded the pans. Then it stopped. There was a gurgle and silence again. This time, there were no other noises. We all held our breaths as we waited. Then his answering wheezing, labored breaths, one after another. I heard Granma yelling at Casy, who began to recite prayers, his voice rising and falling with Grampa's breaths. Gently he went, slowing, slowing…into silence.

When Casy came out, he said that it had been a stroke. Pa stared at the ground, Ma closed her eyes, Tom watched Casy's face, and Granma stared straight ahead. Winfield and Ruthie slipped in among us, Noah wavered in the background, Connie and Rose of Sharon stood towards the side. We had lost Grampa.

Pa said, "It was in Mr. Wilson's tent."

Uncle John nodded and said, "He loaned his tent."

I could not meet their gazes.

They began to talk of burying and of laws, but all I could hear was the sound of Grampa's last breath. I shuddered and squeezed my eyes shut. I didn't feel the tears dripping down my face until a hand wiped them away.

"Look at me, Fern." Casy's clear eyes looked into mine when I opened them. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. "It's going to be alright," he said. "I promise."

"The child was here the whole time, wasn't she," Ma said, stroking my hair. "The poor thing."

They buried Grampa in the earth. Pa and Al, Connie, Tom, and Uncle John dug the grave and lowered the bundle that held Grampa. Casy said a few words and then they began to shovel the soil back in. The light from the fire danced on their backs.

The salted pork and potatoes we ate that night should have been a feast – but it tasted like nothing. Like dirt, maybe.

The family decided to travel with Mister and Miss Wilson, then went off to bed.

"Grampa – it's like he's been dead a year," I heard Ma say.

But I'll always remember the sound of Grampa dying, and the way he smiled as he dreamt of California and its bushels of grapes.


End file.
